Cappuccino Art VIII

Squirrel in a Storm.

Progressing forward

"Things are gonna change, I can feel it." - Beck

After more than a week of being in a pretty foul mood, today I turned a corner.
I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I have been injured and, as a result, as cranky as a feral cat.
Meanwhile, Martin, the painter, has been here for a while, painting the walls "Shaker Beige," as recommended by Nate Berkus; and "Straw" as recommended by Madame X. The house has been in a state of disarray, which, is fine -- you must destroy to rebuild. But it's really been a non-stop-go tour here in the past few weeks.
When we were in Venice, I bought these sconces for our hallway, and finally they've been hung, and look glorious to me.

I think this is the first time, since we lived in San Jose, that I've started to feel "at home." It feels good for a change! I pound a nail in the wall and think maybe I"m going to stay here for a while.
The books were all taken down off the bookshelves in our bedroom so that the walls could be painted,

and when Martin was finished painting, I was left (to my delight) with a new shelving system to ponder. Previously, I had all the fiction in alphabetical order, and all but a Dewey Decimal card catalogue, but now I thought it might be a good idea to add a "to read" shelf made up from the growing stack of books on my nightstand. I like it.

It rained hard today, all day long, which was perfect weather for the tasks at hand. I made the "Tunisian" meatball & veggie stew from Feast (using ground beef instead of lamb).

As I was stirring the pot, I remarked how much I enjoy making soups and stews, leading Troy to suggest that perhaps I was a witch, with a cauldron, in a previous life. I agreed.
In my next life, I can vow I'll use half as much cinnamon and allspice in these meatballs, because the overall effect was overpowering, and I prefer Greek-stylee subtlety.

I've been reading Anderson Cooper's book, "Dispatches from the Edge," which was sent to me by Jody, simply because I expressed an interest in the book and said "who doesn't love Anderson?"
Little did Jody know how precise and profound her timing was for this particular book. I really appreciate how this happens in life: the serendipity of books and stories. This book has a lot to do with how we deal with loss and grief, and how the world continues to revolve, even when we can't. Cooper openly writes about the loss of his father and brother, framing his personal tragedies with the intense tales of life in the world's hottest and hardest-hit war and disaster zones, including Somalia, Sri Lanka, and Sarajevo. And lastly, he talks at length about Hurricane Katrina.
I can relate to being haunted by death and propelled to keep moving forward in a sort of escape from "everyday life" or ordinariness, because the thoughts going on in your head are so removed from daily concerns that they -- the concerns -- almost seem trivial, regardless of whether they are or not.
Katrina hit the Gulf Coast a few days after my mom died, and impacted me personally in ways that I have harbored internally ever since. The mention of Katrina causes my face to tense up in bitterness, and it was good for me to read Anderson Cooper's frontline account of the devastation and his thoughts on the whole event, as well as his interactions with affected residents since then. It's perfect timing, as the anniversary is soon upon us. I have a lot more things I need to do as I move forward, and it's nice to know I'm not alone in thinking these thoughts about life and death, family and home. I leave you with a quote from a book by Anderson Cooper's dad.
"We must go rejoicing in the blessings of this world, chief of which is the mystery, the magic, the majesty, and the miracle that is life."
-Wyatt Cooper, "Families: A Memoir and a Celebration"

Creative Interiors

Our walls have been painted, and during the process, everything hanging up has been taken down and sometimes moved to a new spot to try out a different location. I hung a blue Delft plate up on an existing wall just to see what it might look like, and Troy later walked into the room and stopped in his tracks to say, "Lisa? There's a plate on the wall!"
Apparently that struck him as very odd.
This morning, I noticed a small change.

I think that is really funny, and this is why I love my husband even more than Z.
The boys were crazy about this new installation. Cooper kept pointing at the wall, shouting, "Waffle! Waffle!" and Wyatt asked a few times if he could eat it. I think I'll leave it up there for a little while.

Clarification on Z

I feel really bad -- I wrote the Ode to Z(zz) in my head as I was stuck awake one night, trying to get back to sleep. It literally is an Ode to Sleep, which I have not really had a relationship with in eight years, since my first son was born.
I feel bad now because it seems that some people have read it as an ode to a person, and maybe other people are wondering why I would post about my "great love" and risk hurting the feelings of my wonderful husband, my true love.
I do want to get back together with Zzz/Sleep, though, and retain my happy marriage, too. Z is Sleep.
The one that got away.
Just kidding.

Ode to Z(zz)

It's been eight years
Since we went our separate ways
Leaving me with only
Glimpses of you in the night.

I miss you
And remember you
Always

Had I only known then
How life without you would be
I would have
Cherished you more.

Sleep, O Sleep!
My great love
Come back to me
Life
Is not the same
Without you.

The Misplaced Scandinavians

A lot of the books I read my sons are favorites from my childhood, but some are discoveries from adulthood, like Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, and Elsa Beskow.
I adore the Elsa Beskow books, full of enchanting forest creatures and tiny people who wear little hats that look like spotted mushroom caps or pointy pine cones. Her world is full of friendly rabbits, fairies, playful squirrels, wise birds, and the people are so small that it takes them two full hands to hold a mere berry. The mother knits the children pure white sweaters that they wear in the cold wintertime with their pretty little green mittens, as they gather firewood and talk to the rabbit, whom they notice has a white winter coat, too. They gather mushrooms and slice them and string them up to dry. Just a delight!
The stories also feed my fantasies about how Scandinavians must have the most fantastic, and perfect summers! I'm convinced that if I spent summers in Sweden, Finland, Denmark, or Norway I would love summertime, and maybe even come to enjoy salmon. I would stroll through wispy fields and eat mouthfuls of fresh herbs like Andreas Viestad in Lom. I'd wear a bucket hat and pick mushrooms under the strict supervision of Anli.
Incidentally, Roald Dahl summered in Norway and shares his fond memories in Boy.
I went on an Elsa Beskow book binge a couple years ago, and bought The Children of the Forest, Peter in Blueberry Land, Woody, Hazel, and Little Pip, and Around the Year. I was so excited to present them to the boys, but, sadly, no one was quite as interested as I was. So, after several forced attempts, I shelved my enthusiasm along with the books (in the boys' room, of course). I would read them once in a while, but still, the boys seemed more interested in...dinosaurs.
Today, I saw Children of the Forest in a stack that had been brought down to form a "force field," which is what the boys do with their books lately. They prop up the books and form a fence, and then sit and play in the middle of the force field. On a whim, I grabbed the Forest book and sat down to read it to Cooper.
He loved it!

I don't know who was more excited -- Cooper about the frogs and owls and little forest people; or me about Cooper liking the book! He was enrapt to the final word!

I'm so happy and have been sitting here staring at Cooper as he's playing on the floor. I can't help envisioning this little towhead wearing a puffy round red cap with white polka dots. Maybe this Halloween. In the meantime, we still have The Sun Egg to look forward to.

Feed your Scandi-love -- watch New Scandinavian Cooking

Super fly

My superfoods eating plan didn't exactly come to a screeching halt this weekend, with the arrival of our friends from Colorado. Rather, it was the equivalent of the freeway SUV rollover, veering off into a spectacular bounce of a landing. It started with the pasta al forno I made using Nigella's recipe from Feast, utilizing bacon, beef, and rigatoni that didn't contain a speck of whole grain in it.
But damn it was good.
By Saturday night I was throwing whatever I could grab from the kitchen onto the table. We grilled hamburgers, a steak, made nachos. The boys were grabbing bananas, apples, strawberries, orange juice, cheese sticks, watermelon. Ham and salami sandwiches were made at breakneck speed, and today Gail made chocolate chip cookies -- the secret recipe containing Crisco.
I give.
Gail and I have managed to split a Greek salad between us, but I'm still on deck to make a rum cake and also bought Champagne to toast our last night together. Troy wants to make his waffles tomorrow, and asked me to pick up strawberries and whipped cream for a festive topping. We have been having so much fun and if only all the swimming the boys have been doing would burn off the calories I've consumed, the weekend would be perfect!
Troy and Tori met when they worked as valet parkers at the Brown Palace hotel in Denver, a luxurious grande dame where they were relegated to the entrance and garage. They talked about philosophy late into the night between bursts of scrambling for tips and sliding the hotel guests' cars sideways into spaces using the emergency hand break technique. The beginning of a strong friendship was forged that would see them through their salad days and the big and small events in life to come.

Troy has never, ever forgotten how Tori would make pasta with Italian sausage, and automatically split it onto two plates when they were roommates. I don't know if Tori ever realized just how broke and hungry Troy was back then, but I can tell that as long as Troy lives, it will give him great pleasure to spend time with Tori and his family, and give back in any way that he can. There's a great respect and loyalty between these two friends that does my heart good to see. And I suppose that's a different kind of super food.

Cappuccino art VII and more.

The other morning, Troy and I were discussing how the only thing we ever see in our cappuccinos these days are ghosts.
It's no longer shocking. It's like: oh look, another ghost.
This one is straight out of the Casper the Friendly Ghost tales.

Look at that smile.

Imagine our delight, then, when Troy sliced an onion, and saw a face in the onion. (Only portobello mushrooms were involved in this dinner.)

Just in case you need a little push for visualization:

The red onion is a super food. And entertaining, as well.
After another slice, we saw a more feminine, petite onion face.
So we decided to make an onion family.

They lived happily ever after in a robust pasta sauce.
The End.

Mud-lucious and puddle-wonderful

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high
-George Gershwin


There are times here when we sit outside and see a great show of nature. I don't know where you grew up, but I've never seen some of the things that I see down here. Turtles crossing the road (to get to the other side); alligators sunning themselves. At times, it seems downright prehistoric. The pelicans resemble pterodactyls, and the bugs are enormous. Yesterday, the fish were jumpin' and I managed to catch some shots. There was also a giant, red dragonfly whirring around.

And after a number of fish jumped, a hawk appeared overhead to survey the action. He was distracted by something apparently more tempting in a nearby field, but for a moment I thought we might see him divebomb and clutch a fish. Maybe he'd already had a big breakfast.


In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy learns that she need never look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire. Because, she is told, if she can't find it there, then she never really lost it to begin with.
A few nights ago, I sat watching the sun set, and could smell the heady fragrance of the Casablanca lilies in full bloom. It's taken me a while, I thought, but I may have finally succumbed to Florida.

Eat your heart out.

Dieting talk amongst friends has got me sitting here thinking of my own profound relationship with food over the course of my lifetime. I can say that from the time I was a child to now, I have experienced so many complex phases related to food and life that it really boggles my mind to fathom it all.
From sustenance to happiness, and pleasure brought from eating, to self-induced deprivation and control and discipline, it's as though an entire "secret" language has been expressed through my eating habits. There have been times in my life when I didn't think about food, didn't care about it; and other times when food was all I could think of. As a child, I happily ran around and meals were on the periphery of my focus. As a teen, I struggled throughout my formative years to be heard, and have my ideas and intellect taken seriously, rather than garnering attention for my figure -- always the breasts! So I didn't eat for a while. Adulthood and more confidence came, and then the years saw me bouncing back and forth, discovering food, needing to lose weight to fit into a dress or combat weekends of indulgence in Napa Valley and a thousand other places in the foodie heaven that is California. Yet I still remember feeling genuinely panicky a couple times when I lost enough weight to feel tiny, and physically insignificant. That is indeed a crazy, mixed-up predicament.
Panic and fear have, at times, been palpably driven home as I dieted and then would suddenly think back to two people I loved who wasted away from cancer. Their bodies failed them. My step-dad, a Greek-American so full of life, reduced to a skinny man having Ensure poured into his stomach through a tube. Not being able to taste wine because his tastebuds had been radiated off. It was a tragedy to behold. Our friend, Debbi was always a big girl. Overweight. Then she started working out, and lost about 50 lbs., and she looked great! But then she kept losing weight, and discovered she had cancer. Eventually, she could only manage to eat tiny mouthfuls of food, and when she died she was little more than a skeleton.
That connection of food to life and death feels like it's imprinted upon my cells. It's no secret to those who know me that death has been a major preoccupation to me for years, and so why should it be any surprise that I might feel like banking pounds as insurance against some possible future catastrophe? And yet, ironically, you bank too much weight, and you're risking your life! Especially with my family history of heart disease and diabetes.
I never had glamorous pregnancies, and the weight gained has stuck to me like glue. I have absolutely no regrets about the way my body has changed from having children. I have not worked hard to become Skinny Mom, the fashionable thing to do, but rather, have tried to focus upon nourishing myself. And that is what food is about to me now: nourishing my body and soul. If that means eating for comfort sometimes, I accept that. I'm slowly working towards being able to strike that elusive balance, and feel more understanding of myself.
Be kind to yourselves, and good luck to us all, towards health and feeling good despite the reading on the scale.

His is red. But it's so much more.

There's a mystery I've been trying to uncover for most of my life: what is it with dogs and their collars??

Nothing makes Lucky spaz out as much as someone messing with his collar. The act of taking off his collar, or putting it back on him, makes him crazy. You can barely get it fastened because he is trying to grab it, and he jumps up and down, and to the side, like Muhammad Ali in the ring. If you give it to him, he will prance and run around like a super-charged flying reindeer, snorting and throwing his head up and around.
Is it because it's the one thing he feels belongs exclusively to him?
Does a collar make a dog feel secure?
Or is it the association with going places?
Is it because they like jewelry?
The Great Sphinx of Giza, Atlantis, Stonehenge, and Dogs' Collars. We may never really know.

The Scary Fairy

Last night as the boys and I talked at bedtime, lights out, nestled up in down comforters, they asked me about some of the German fairytales I grew up hearing.
The scary ones.
Even more frightening than the Grimm Brothers' tales, were the stories I read from a big yellow book I had that contained graphic illustrations of children who were not mindful...oh, what became of them!
There was the story of the boy who wouldn't eat his supper and so he danced and dwindled away to nothing, and died. His bowl of food was placed upon his grave.
There was a story about the little thumbsucker whose mother left him for the afternoon, and warned him, before she left, not to suck his thumb -- or else a man with giant scissors would come and cut off his thumbs. As soon as the mother walked out the front door, the little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth, and OUT jumped a man with enormous scissors, and he did cut off the boy's thumbs!
One boy was always looking up at the sky when he walked and so he fell into a canal and drowned.
Yikes! These tales were a not-so-subtle means of scaring us into submission to pay attention, eat our food, keep up with our grooming, and watch where we were going!
So when the boys asked me if I knew of any other scary stories, I really couldn't think of any more, and I made one up.
There is a big monster who comes into children's rooms at night, and he will chase you into a corner and sniff you, and he can detect whether or not you've eaten any fruit or vegetables that day. He hates fruit and vegetables, and so if he sniffs you and you've eaten them, he will pass on by, but if you have not eaten any, he gobbles you up, and crunches your bones.
This monster proved to be the most terrifying of the night, as my children eat fewer vegetables than they should, but none of them are thumbsuckers.
I don't mean to scare them, or maybe I do. There is a part of me that knows my German ancestors would approve, if not some parenting agencies. No doubt the boys will be eating some fruit and vegetables today, especially before bedtime.

Fly zone!

There's a man in a flying machine around these parts!


His contraption appears to be built of a giant fan -- like on the airboats you see cutting through the Everglades; a seat; and a parachute. He can adjust his altitude quickly and easily, and I can't see close enough, but would like to think he's wearing an old pilot's cap, like Snoopy when he flies his doghouse.
The man in his flying machine appears overhead every once in a while. You can hear the buzz of his motor from inside the house, and we all excitedly rush outside, squinting up at the sky to watch him whirring around! And then he slowly disappears, heading out over the water and becoming a tiny speck on the horizon...going wherever he goes...until next time.

No-fly zone

Today was an official Haz-Mat day chez moi. Beginning early in the morning with (newly potty-trained) Harry accidentally peeing the bed. Then, one of the cats threw up. Then, Harry was climbing a wall and fell off and bashed his head, so there was a bloody scene and we had to rush to get stitches.
Here's where I realized the benefits of Tabby's Fly-girl advice, where you're supposed to get dressed head-to-toe the minute you wake up. Because before we could get into the car to take Harry to the doctor, I had to:
-hold a towel to Harry's head and stabilize him.
-butterfly bandage his forehead.
-find pants for Harry.
-find shoes for Harry.
Meanwhile, I'm shouting at everyone to remain calm, a bit like Edina Monsoon. We were not in a 9-1-1 situation, so it was time to:
-find pants and a shirt for Cooper
-find pants for Griffin
-trade a shirt Griffin was wearing for one that matched his shorts, lest the doctor's office think I'm a disorganized mother.
-grab my wallet and car keys.
-find the car.
It was then that I realized Troy had taken the big car. I was left with the little car. That's okay, I could have made that work. If only I could have found the car key! I called Troy and he told me it was in "my drawer." I have one drawer in the kitchen that is supposed to be all mine, but it keeps getting corrupted. So the key was not in my drawer.
With no keys/car, I had to shuffle everyone over to the neighbor's. No one was home. So we shuffled over to the next neighbor. Mark works at home -- poor him -- so I asked to borrow his car and then hoisted Cooper over to him, since his car only had one car seat, and we set off.
Harry was so brave. He got five stitches -- and a frosted cookie for his trouble.
We returned Mark's car, went home and Cooper smiled and said he had "fun uh Mark!" He got to watch "Winnie the Pooh!"
Thirty minutes later, we were all settling down when suddenly the boys started screaming and running downstairs to announce that Cooper had barfed.
But he's fine. And we're all still dressed, so I think I'll sleep in my clothes in case I need to be organized tomorrow.

Starting summer

Most Americans kick off summer during the extended Memorial Day weekend. Boats are launched, summer houses opened (I hear), grills fired up, and you're allowed to wear white again after a dark fashion winter.
In Florida, it's easy to get lulled into a state of endless summer, because it rarely gets cold enough to wear a jacket, and so there's usually not such a delineation felt. Rather, everything changes in subtle shifts. However, with Emily visiting from a cold climate and being psyched about everything jump-starting her summer, this past week really has felt more like the launch of a season to me.
Lucky went to the groomer and got his summertime clip. Emily & I got pedicures.

[Emily defends her toe ring as her "one act of rebellion," which tells you a lot about her. She sometimes says, "Oh my goodness!" in situations that have me dropping the F-bomb. And she says, "H-E-double toothpicks."]

We all went to the beach, which has the softest, whitest sand you've ever seen. On Saturday it was all misty and windy due to the tropical storm, but on Sunday it was packed with happy people. There was a great range of people there -- babies, surfers, seniors, and everyone in between -- all cheerful and relaxed.


Back at home, Troy chopped down some basil for pesto, and we grilled lamb chops & ate ice cream. Very summery.

The lamb chops and potatoes were cooked on high heat & with a lot of olive oil. Next time I'll turn up the heat even more on the chops to get more of a char, Greek-stylee. We drizzled olive oil on them while they were on the grill to get the flames to shoot up. Everything got a spritz of lemon juice once it was moved to the platter.

I made a salted butter caramel sauce for the vanilla ice cream.

And here is a lemon cake made in a bundt mould Emily gave us. Perfect! One turret for each child. I did notice some marauders stormed the castle and attacked the base while I was out.

It's early June and the strawberries are perfect. We've been eating them by the bushel. I was going to top the turrets with a strawberry, but the boys could hardly wait for their plates, so I had to hurry up. Wyatt's turret resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Last but not least, we may finally have found some good tomatoes. They smell like tomatoes -- a small miracle!

The livin' is definitely going to be easy today because I have nothing planned except to catch up with friends & laundry. As Baz Luhrmann says: don't forget your sunscreen.

Chacun prépare sa propre mort

Ti'Punch
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Ti'Punch (or Créole Ti Punch) is a rum-based mixed drink that is especially popular in Martinique, Guadeloupe, French Guyana, and other French-speaking Caribbean states. It is usually served as an apéritif before starting a meal, both as a matter of tradition and because the drink itself is strongly alcoholic. A popular tradition is that of chacun prépare sa propre mort (roughly, each prepares his own death), where instead of serving the mixed drink, the bartender or host will simply place out the ingredients, and everyone will prepare the drink according to his or her own taste. Opinions differ as to whether it should be served with or without ice, but most agree that the "real" ti'punch should be served without ice. However, adding a small amount of ice allows the flavours of the ingredients to blossom.

I'm going to end up rooming with Lindsay Lohan at Promises if I don't soon quit my job as guinea pig for Troy's rum experiments. As we've been discussing the finalists for the rum company name, Troy has also been doing all sorts of rum research, and recently spent an afternoon with a rum expert, a dude who lives on his sailboat and travels around the islands, sampling rum and writing about it. Said dude taught Troy how to make a proper Ti' Punch.
So Emily arrived yesterday for her weekend visit, and while we were all catching up, Troy was making us ti' punches. They ought to call this drink The Little Lobotomy, as I killed many brain cells. I have zero'd in on Pyrat rum as a favorite, and can vouch for its smoothness.

Today, June 1st, marks the official beginning of the Atlantic hurricane season, and not only did it rain most of the day, but a tropical storm (Barry) has formed in the Gulf to mark the occasion.

Perfect conditions for soaking one's head, lounging, drinking restorative cups of strong tea, and staring blankly at falling raindrops.

Worth a thousand words.

Hey, they are not kidding.

I love popcorn and have developed a precise methodology involving heat, steam, shaking, and the perfect oil/corn ratio in the pot, finishing with a light drizzling of unsalted butter and a sprinkling of salt. The perfect hot bowl.
However, last night there was no time for that, and I wanted a snack fast, so I snagged one of Troy's microwavable kettle corn packages (yuck. See how desperate I was?). I cavalierly tossed it into the microwave oven and hit the POPCORN button (life's a breeze, isn't it?) and continued chattering away to Troy until I heard the familiar DING DING DING of the microwave chime.
Imagine my crestfallen facial expression when a handful of popcorn fell out, trailed by a stream of dark yellow liquid.

What the?!
Oh no, I'd done it! I'd failed to follow the directions!

Yuck! Not just microwaved kettle corn, but muddled microwaved kettle corn! I'd always kind of wondered about this big warning on the flat package. It's hard to imagine that one side could make such a huge difference, but, as we see here, it does. As Dominick Dunne might say, there is an art to placement.

Revising the idea of a bad day

Last night I happened to watch, "Apocalypto."
Holy hell.
From the first scene, it's an intense, extreeeeemely violent and bloody movie. After watching poor Jaguar Paw go through a few days, I said to Troy, "Wow. Kind of makes you feel like you shouldn't complain about the worst day you might have."
Indeed, I don't have to chase down a tapir for dinner (nor eat it's balls); run for my life while arrows are being slung at my back; or birth a baby au naturelle (I've learned that's not for me) like Mrs. Jaguar Paw.
Whenever I watch any historical show and consider how people may have lived before modern times, I'm always grateful to live in the here and now, with access to Advil.

And so, as much as I would like to complain about today, which is being devoted to the battle of wills between Harry and myself over his potty-training, I won't.

Read a movie review of "Apocalypto"

Read what a Mayan scholar says about "Apocalypto."

And yet another Mayan scholar, archaeologist Dr. Smith, says yes, it really was that brutal."

Capuccino art VI

It's a ghost! A chubby, startled ghost!